


A Story in Your Scars

by yo_kookie



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, More friendship than anything else, Not really a relationship, One Shot, Sehun centric, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:19:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1883130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yo_kookie/pseuds/yo_kookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They lined his skin like the neat, methodical lines of his words. "Write an essay," Junmyeon would say, and he'd mark the paper with the dark graphite of his pencil. Combining different sizes and thicknesses of lines to create letters that then formed words. He'd occasionally pause whilst writing, the thin horizontal lines reminding him of the ones he was concealing. Yet he always swallowed the feeling and continued; similar to how he continued to write those lines on himself. They weren't words nor were they letters. Rather, each one held over a thousand words and countless feelings that he could no longer bear. What left these inscriptions was everything negative and when the flow stopped he felt lighter. With each new line drawn into him he was closer to a release from agony's cold grip. After leaving that place, that secret one where he'd write and draw, he was always happier and more free. It was one feeling that he'd been desperately trying to keep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Story in Your Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Written in one night. I've been wanting to write something like this for awhile. Self harm and mentions of self harm are ahead. Otherwise, please enjoy it.

They lined his skin like the neat, methodical lines of his words. "Write an essay," Junmyeon would say, and he'd mark the paper with the dark graphite of his pencil. Combining different sizes and thicknesses of lines to create letters that then formed words. He'd occasionally pause whilst writing, the thin horizontal lines reminding him of the ones he was concealing. Yet he always swallowed the feeling and continued; similar to how he continued to write those lines on himself. They weren't words nor were they letters. Rather, each one held over a thousand words and countless feelings that he could no longer bear. What left these inscriptions was everything negative and when the flow stopped he felt lighter. With each new line drawn into him he was closer to a release from agony's cold grip. After leaving that place, that secret one where he'd write and draw, he was always happier and more free. It was one feeling that he'd been desperately trying to keep.

 

\--

 

His first line was drawn under the hot stream of water. It's apart from all of his others. Perhaps because it was the first one. The start of his journey needed to be marked so he left it. He remembers the pain he felt before he drew that first line. Then he remembers it all leaving him with the ink that pooled from his work.

The relief was new and pure bliss when he draw the first line. He had stared at his wrist. It was empty and for some reason he needed to write on it. His words needed to be written and felt. Similar to a diary. At first the feeling was raw and painful. The swipe of his pencil, his blade, stung and tears overflowed his eyes. But when those words, those beautifully red words, spilled from that one line he felt renewed. The steam and water washed them away. All of his negative thoughts left him as he continued to leak pure pain. He sobbed as it continued to flow. He was so happy. No more of his parent's overbearing expectations or his thoughts of hatred. At that moment people couldn't hurt them with his words. Writing was his escape, he decided. Where he could truly escape his feelings. He was safe with a sharpened pencil in hand and an entire body's worth of canvas to write on.

Always was he overwhelmed and stressed. Too many people made his body tremor and his throat constrict. When his mother would say "You're being too careless with your health," he wanted to curl up and sob. So many expectations were thrust upon him. A plus student. Responsible. Quiet. Obedient. His parents said they cared yet they wouldn't lower the bar. They expected him to be the star child; one that would make others parents jealous, yet they couldn't see his undoing. He was disappearing with each new line imbedded into his flesh.

 

\--

 

Being bundled up in that tight tuxedo was the least of his worries. He was surrounded by hundreds of people, party-goers. They all bustled around him in a never ending throng of sweat and expensive perfume. His parents had long since walked off and were most likely greeting their guests. He was alone in a sea of threats. The small line on his wrist bubbled with pain. It reminded him of release. Desperately he tried go escape the monsters that threatened his tale. He'd write about them, too. They would stop him, ask how things were going. He'd only respond with a one-word reply before he bowed and excused himself. He was on the brink of bursting. Any moment and he'd spill his words to this audience instead of his paper. He was suffocating in this catacomb of beasts. They were his antagonists, his hindrances. They were preventing him from rescuing himself. And just like that, he broke.

Everything came out at once. His breaths instantly became labored as he fell to his knees. Liquid began to fall from his eyes, but it wasn't the kind he needed. The salt burned at his skin and put him through an intense agony. He wanted to scream, but no sound would leave his chapped lips. One by one, an orchestra of eyes cast their gaze on him. They impaled him with their beastly attention and he couldn't breathe. His clothing became too hot. One starving guest tried to help him up, but all that did was strangle him further. He pushed them away, for fear of being consumed. He pushed aside a wall of people, his legs barely getting him to upstairs and into his room. The lock was twisted with fumbling, nervous fingers. Alone yet he still didn't feel safe. He needed to write. He needed to no longer feel. He'd write out his experience, his monsters, and his words. He'd rescue himself with only words and lines.

With fingers no more steady than a boat on roaring waves he secured the door of his closet. Amongst the silhouettes of clothing he could see his demons clawing their way to him. He tore open his overcoat and dress shirt whilst eyeing the outstretched fingers of nightmares waiting to be dreamt. In moments he took the utensil to his skin. The story continued on his hip, telling of hungry monsters and drowning in a sea stares. His worries dissipated with each new chapter and line. It flowed with the ink that stained his pressed dress pants. His trembling fingers soon ceased and his breathing became less troubled. He was happy, content, and a whole other mess of blissful emotions. The pencil rolled out of his hand as he left consciousness. He had exhausted himself by writing a novel on his skin. He had been numbed by that wonderful sensation. Perhaps he'd even been intoxicated by it and it was just lulling his senses into a sleep of pure relaxation. Whatever had happened, he eventually fell victim to the darkness clouding his vision. It was nothing but warmth that enveloped him in his sleep, and for the first time in so long he slept through the night.

 

\--

 

"Sehun, are you paying attention?" Junmyeon snapped, forcing him out of his bittersweet memory. It seemed to have been so long ago since he'd began that story. Now so many chapters accompanied those first few. They were always surges of emotion the way he wrote them. With each new chapter he tried pushing the pencil harder. This way, he'd be able to see more of the ink flow and his chapters would be longer. Though there was a sort of aftershock of pain he took it as a minor price to pay for more content. He'd been forced to hide the stained clothing in the back of his closet so no one would see. He was afraid that someone would see the story before it had reached completion. It was so long now. He'd stopped writing on his hip and began to focus on his stomach where he'd be able to make longer lines and write more. After he'd filled that space up, he figured he'd move to his other hip before finally ending it on his other wrist. It would be an amazing journey, he was sure of it.

Junmyeon continued to explain the trigonometry that Sehun wasn't too keen on learning. It was a bore, and he'd rather be watching television or something equally mind rotting. "What's the answer to this one?" His tutor asked and he quickly blurted out what he thought was correct. "You're getting better," he complimented after verifying that the answer was correct. "Do you want to break for a snack?" He was met with an encouraging nod. Junmyeon called for a butler as he bookmarked the textbook page and closed it's heavy pages. At the back of his mind, Sehun thought that his story would be even longer and far more interesting than that monotonous hard covered book.

Stretching, he stood up, eager to see what snacks the butler would bring. Honestly, he quite like Junmyeon. It might have been solely because whenever he was in the room it was just the two of them, that way he couldn't be overwhelmed. However, a part of him said that it was Junmyeon's personality and how he lit up the room with just a smile. He was a great tutor and always knew what would bring up a bad mood. He never felt the urge to write when he was wit Junmyeon. Though when he did write all he could think of was the handwriting lessons that Junmyeon drilled into him. When his journey was finished, he would make sure that Junmyeon would be the first to see his story.

"Sehun," Junmyeon's voice was shaking and it sent a wave of anxiety through him. "Stay just like that." He was in the middle of stretching his muscles. His arms were still raised above his head. There was a slight coolness on his stomach and that's when he knew. Junmyeon had seen them. The lines that he'd tried so hard to conceal. The words that he'd let escape him countless times all rushed back to him as he stood, frozen. He never had thought that Junmyeon might have been a monster, too.

Junmyeon came closer and his throat began to close. "Sehun, take off your shirt. Please." His voice was barely above a whisper yet it sounded the a scream. Sehun collapsed back on his bed, chest heaving. Not yet. No one could see his writing until it was finished. The intimidating beast of Junmyeon continued to get closer and he could feel himself starting to become light headed. The room spun as he hid his face. Again, he wanted to scream. Who would come? He'd always counted on Junmyeon to be his saviour, but now he was the monster. He could already feel what death would feel like at the hands of such a creature. It was sickening.

However, Junmyeon didn't eat him, nor did he hurt or attempt to kill him. He embraced him. All of the surging feelings came to a grinding halt. The only sound was Junmyeon's quiet sniffles that echoed off of the high ceiling. He didn't understand. Why was he being so gentle? Was this really how the monsters fed? Something told him no, Junmyeon isn't a monster. "How could you do this to yourself?" He was crying. Sehun cried, too. "How could you hurt yourself like this? You're such a wonderful kid. What could possess you to do this?" He continued rambling. Suddenly, the writing wasn't enough. The _cuts_ weren't enough. Every time he'd taken that blade to his skin and thought the pain was gone became a lie. Not once had any of those cuts really helped. They were nothing but false promises and held only what he wanted to forget. He wasn't writing. He was only bringing himself closer to death. For a brief moment that's what he thought he wanted, but the cries of Junmyeon reminded him that no, he didn't want it. What he really wanted was happiness, and it had been here the entire time. Happiness continued to hug and hold him close. Tears spilled from his eyes in an endless river as he clung to his elder. There had been no story nor journey. It was how he'd coped with the anxiety and pain that plagued his life. Now he saw it for what it was; a cold steel blade that he'd used to forget and live in a blissful illusion.

"I'm sorry." Every cut he'd made into his skin burned. Out of all of them, that first one burned the most. The "beginning of his journey" or "the first chapter" was what caused this. He did nothing but regret as anguish continued to wash over him. The monster had been him. No one was out to eat or hurt him. He was the danger, the fear, the antagonist. Not the hero.

Junmyeon took his face in his hands. "Don't be sorry." He brushed the hair out of Sehun's face and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "You're not alone. I've done it, too." He pulled up his sleeve to reveal neatly drawn lines like he's shown Sehun how to do in that handwriting lesson. "They're not how you should get rid of those feelings. Because, evidently, the feelings come back." He was right. The relief was never permanent, only temporary. After less than a week the pain crept up again, but it hit harder. It was just an everlasting loop, and it would eventually lead to such a pain that the only escape would be, sadly, death.

"When even you are against yourself in a sea of bad things, always know that there will be at least one good thing. If you strive to find that good thing it'll glow brighter and brighter until it outshines every bad thing, and you'll no longer be in a sea, but in a shining ocean." His voice was tender as he rocked Sehun back and forth. The boy had long since quieted, and his breathing became even. He rubbed circles into his back and hummed a light tune. Kim Junmyeon was by no means a monster. He was the hero of Sehun's story that had finally come to an end.

 


End file.
